


Little Talks

by witchkings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eyeball Gouging, Gore, M/M, OC Balrog - Freeform, OC Orc - Freeform, Post-Mandos, Torture, and not in the angry way, angband politics, blowjob, domestic violence but mairon likes it, face fucking, lasting injuries, mad melkor, mairon is a thirsty bitch, messed up shit, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: After his exile, Melkor takes to long absences from Angband and growing suspicions about his lieutenant's aspirations.Mairon would do anything to prove he is nothing, if not loyal.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	Little Talks

**Author's Note:**

> In which we find out why Sauron manifests as a great (queer) eye. Based on an idea of a friend of mine. 
> 
> Please heed the tags. 
> 
> Title based on the song by Of Monsters And Men

No two screams ever sounded quite alike. Over the years Mairon had defined categories to sort them and could easily see the thoughts passing through a creature’s head without having to reach out mentally to pick them from their distorted brain activity. But that did not make the single specimen any less unique.  
  
There were those who screamed in pain, simple and delivering pain, and they had but one thing on their minds: _make it stop _. There were angry screams, of course, a sort of maddening rage Mairon could only scoff at, because these children were, at best, mere sparks next to the furious whirlwinds of flame Melkor’s rage inspired. There were also those who screamed for death because they saw no point in a life filled with darkness and iron. Mairon could not disagree more. And then there were those who screamed with an undertone of pleasure. They thought along the lines of _ Please don’t stop _ and Mairon found them rather amusing, if not relatable.  
  
Much like the little elf who laid splayed at Mairon’s feet at the moment, a Doriath rat who had strayed too far from home, rivers of blood dried on his back. His head was bald, and his ears reduced to holes in the side of his skull that produced a constant hum which echoed so loudly in the elf’s head, that Mairon heard it, too. The elf whimpered as he kicked his side. The caps of his boots were reinforced with steel, crude and ugly, but useful, and connected with a dull thump  
  
Torture wasn’t Mairon’s forte and while the whole art of inflicting and receiving pain fascinated him, it was too messy for his tastes. Blood got into his hair, spittle and sweat all over him and even when he washed himself, he felt filthy for days after. He would devise new methods, so he didn’t have to walk out with gore-speckled cheeks and hands slick with intestines, but Melkor preferred these procedures to be as brutal and brief as possible. As all orcs turned out barren, torture was a necessary cog in Angband’s finely tuned war machine. And one that had to be well oiled.  
  
“Please,” the elf whimpered. _ Please, another. _ Mairon scoffed. He could understand the need, but the ones who liked it took longer to break, and the real magic happened after.  
  
In fact, this was Mairon’s third session with the little rat and he’d seen quite enough of the swollen face and those bright, blue eyes stared at him as if he was a revelation. It was unnerving. And if he was being overly precise, which he tended to be, much to most people's discomfort, this was not even his job.  
  
Melkor was the one who usually spent countless hours down in the dungeons whipping and cutting and cursing the name of his maker. With his complete disregard for tidiness and precision, his methods of corrupting the little spirits were much quicker than Mairon’s semi-thought-out schemes of torture, although some of Melkor’s orcs had come out twisted, devoid of their prior intelligence. They ate and slept and farted and made perfect, dispensable soldiers, but were unable to care for themselves. Enough spirits lived in Angband to govern and command these orcs though and so, too slowly, and steadily their army grew.  
  
Or would grow if Melkor did his job. Mairon pulled back his leg and kicked again, this time hard enough that the elf lifted off the ground and crashed against Mairon’s anvil. There was a low crunch, and the humming in Mairon’s head ceased at once.  
  
“Mylord,” came a croaky voice from the doorway and Mairon whirled around to find Glûg, one of the brighter orcs, which meant he could streamline more than two words, cowering there, his helmet drawn too far over his eyes. He was clad in the new iron breastplates Mairon had commissioned the forges with, and he was pleased it made the orc appear to be bulkier than he actually was. He was one of Mairon’s and thus felt more drawn to him, a behavior that had earned Mairon more than one rough bout of disciplining.  
  
“I’m busy. What do you want?”  
  
“I thinks you might have killed ‘im.”  
  
“Thank you, I hadn’t noticed,” Mairon said, baring his teeth. He dropped the hammer he’d been using before, its bright mithril gleam subdued by crusts of blood, and wiped his hands on the leather apron he wore to spare his robes some of the damage.  
  
“You is welcome, sir.” Glûg beamed and Mairon had to suppress an urge to smack his own head against the anvil too. Why couldn’t they have made a cleverer sort of soldier. These insolent and stupid goblins would be the death of him.  
  
_ Oh, but you know why they have to be stupid _, he thought as Glûg made space for Mairon to pass through.  
  
“Your paranoia is such a waste of time,” he muttered under his breath, daring surely, but daring only because he was quite certain what Glûg wanted. The tell-tale rattle of his armor followed Mairon as he made his way through the dingy corridors of the dungeons with no light to see by, but the thin slivers of the souls caged here. He dodged outstretched palms and tuned out the wails. The faces of the prisoners were hidden in shadow of the thick black grates, but Mairon knew them all, his memory too finely tuned to forget if he wanted to. Even the smallest wheel was important and no matter what Melkor said, Mairon would always put in the extra effort, write the additional line, overcalculate rather than oversee.  
  
“What do you want, orc?” He asked as he untied his apron and hung it on a peg by the stone steps that led up to the fortress’ main halls. There was also a hidden doorway that would lead directly to Melkor’s sleeping quarters but only Mairon was privy to that fact.  
  
“Mylord, I is wondering, that seems, in fact, we is wondering, about the housing, uh, what did you call it?”  
  
“Situation.” It was a situation alright. Angband had only ever been designed as an outpost, housing no more than a battalion at highest utilized capacity. The three thousand years of Melkor’s exile had given Mairon a lot of time to restructure and add and so, Angband had grown while waiting for its master. Still, three ages of labor hadn’t been enough to accommodate for a growing army and many of the orcs lived in barracks on the surrounding land, a compromise they seemed unhappy with if the frequent fights and outbreaks of fire were anything to go by. Mairon had a notion to extend the palace even further, adding to the backside, a simple scheme, but one he needed Melkor’s permission for, obviously. It was a win-win situation at any rate. If the orcs started any fires within the fortress, they’d learn quickly how well that sort of behavior was received. Mairon bit down a smile.  
  
“Yesss, the housing situation. And we is thinking how your lordship’s ideas could be, uh...”  
  
“Put into practice?”  
  
“Yes. That. We is wondering whether we could have an audience with the Master so he could gives ‘is-“  
  
“His approval. Yes.”  
  
“So?” Glûg halted, again hovering in the arch that marked the end of the stairway, in what seemed to be a newly acquired state of being. Don’t tell me I gave him spatial anxiety, Mairon thought and could feel a faint headache begin to bud against the curve of his temple bone.  
  
“So?”  
  
“Is an audience possible?”  
  
“I will arrange it. Now get lost,” Mairon said and glared until Glûg sank back into the shadows, disappearing into a direction that was completely off his course. An audience would be difficult, not only because after fucking them up properly, Melkor didn't want anything to do with the orcs, but also because Melkor had fallen into the habit of long absences from Angband.  
  
Mairon squared his shoulders and rushed along the corridor. He made a decision right then, as he passed another group of orcs who tried to ask him about fresh meat for their meals. And again, as two lesser spirits walked by, complaining loudly about their lack of guidance. Today was the day. Four weeks of keeping the balrog’s patient, the orcs busy, the dragons fed, the elves tortured, four weeks bent over reports, maps, propositions, complaints, bodies and metal were past him and he wasn’t sure he could keep their little empire running smoothly for the next four. That was, Melkor’s little empire. Because every day Mairon walked these halls, more and more eyes trailed after him, revering, their tiny and not-so-tiny brains sprouting thoughts Melkor would cure instantly. If, if, if.  
  
Also, work tired him. Mairon wasn't fatigued, per se, it all simply lacked for consequence. Someone to approve of his work and reward him or to grind his face into the nearest wall in disappointment. They both had their distinct kind of appeal and Mairon much preferred them to this. Whatever this was.  
  
He emerged behind the towering throne, careful not to set off any of the traps that were placed there to vanquish attempts of backstabbing, usurping and what else kindled Melkor's fantasies these days. Mairon whispered a quick charm and Draugluin settled down from where he was perched at the base of the dais, his growl turning into a soft purr. Mairon took a long look around the hall.  
  
The air in here was thick with sweltering heat and it burned the back of Mairon's throat. Instantly, sweat beaded on his forehead and a small part of him wanted to curl up next to the dog and bathe in this foul fire for the rest of eternity. He silenced that part.  
  
The space before him was occupied by a large gathering of Balrogs who were bent over their strategic map of Beleriand, pushing little iron figurines this way and that. Their wings fluttered excitedly and Mairon couldn't tell whether they were playing or actually strategizing, and he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when there was more urgent business to attend to. Mairon took a deep breath and slipped away to the side, winding around columns in an attempt to be swift and unseen. Knowing he couldn't afford to be so, not when he was still acting commander around here.  
  
“Mairon,” growled Gothmog as Mairon passed their group. Of course, he would be among them, which meant there had never been a chance to slip by. Mairon approached the table.  
  
“Yes?” Curling heat licked at Mairon’s cheeks as two dozen balrogs stared down at him, expectantly. Demanding of something Mairon had not the authority to give. Mairon straightened his back and with a little twist of the air about him, grew in size to all who looked at him. Wisps of hair whipped around his face. “Was there anything you wanted?”  
  
Most of the balrogs averted their eyes, only a few looked at him now, their lights dimmed, and heads bowed. Mairon smiled. It could be intoxicating, this position and the power it bore. He could kill any one of these demons with a flick of his fingers and no one would doubt his decision. All because he carried the name of Melkor before him like a shield of almighty righteousness. Mairon loved it and he hated it.  
  
Gothmog grunted in his sulfuric equivalent of an eye roll.  
  
“It’s about the rat problem,” Azog grunted, steam puffing from his flaring nostrils. He wore a glowing orange cutlass at his hip that was almost as long as Mairon’s body was tall.  
  
“I did not realize we had a rat problem,” Mairon said and pushed out his chin. A low murmur travelled through the ranks of Balrogs like the hum of a thousand bees and Mairon picked up fragments of disrespectful and favored and then what he’d been waiting for: filthy orcs. “Well, commander, it seems your friends here have a problem. Do you care to explain, or shall I take my leave?”  
  
Gothmog glared at Mairon as his hands moved to the handle of his whip. He knew that no rumor evaded Melkor’s lieutenant and that Mairon was aware of what exactly was going on. It boiled down to this: the Balrog’s were jealous. Fiery eyes swung back and forth between them and Mairon raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Azog’s talking about the orcs. My companions heard talk about an extension of their living quarters so they may reside within the palace. Their numbers grow steadily, they are given new housings and comforts, more meat than they can possibly eat.”  
  
“So? They make up the dominant part of our army.”  
  
“What do we get?” Azog chimed in and Gothmog smacked him over the head for the remark. For a long moment, the temperature rose ever higher as the tension thickened between the two balrogs and a few others were staring, nodding passionately.  
  
“He has a point,” Gothmog said. “What do we get?”  
  
“You require no nourishment, you have comfortable living quarters under the dungeons where you are nearest to the fiery heart of the world. Not a single balrog has given his life in Melkor’s service. You get that.” Mairon paused and let the silence fester. The fluttering grew louder and more intense and the whole hall was alight now, columns casting long shadows over the obsidian floor.  
  
“Moreover, you get glory and credit in battle. Orcs are expandable, orcs are made to fight and die. You are made to fight for one who recognizes you as worthy and you are allowed to survive to see a new world arise and be a part of it. That is what you get, mylords, what more do you want?”  
  
A dozen balrogs blinked at Mairon as they folded in their wings and hung their heads between hunched shoulders like dogs displaying perfect submission. Only Azog stood straight still, sparks flying from his lips as he snarled:  
  
“And where is our noble master? Where is this king we fight for? Where-“ Mairon let a dagger slide out of the sleeve of his robes and, with a flick of his wrist, buried it deep inside Azog’s eye socket. The balrog howled in pain and stumbled backward, crashing into one of the pillars.  
  
“This,” Mairon hissed and licking flames rose from his hands as he opened his arms wide. “Is how you perish.” He hurled the fire at the struggling balrog who was clutching his face and with a second, much louder cry, the balrog vaporized. Before realization could sink in among the group and more questions arose, Mairon whirled on the spot and marched out of the room, out of the castle and away from a million responsibilities, dragging him down, toward the only responsibility that really mattered. 

  


The ruins of Utumno were a wasteland of broken stone, gaping craters and fragments of spirits that had remained there, tied by the endless misery of battles past. As Mairon stepped around jagged columns, he could feel the scars beneath his feet, writhing. They ran deeper than Arda’s blackest abyss and they pulsated with energy untamed and wild, wanting out, wanting to consume and churn in their depths all that was lively and bright. Mairon being the next closest thing to this, the ground vibrated under his feet, cracked open up where he treaded with an intent to swallow him whole. But he had walked this path countless times and he had always been able to avoid an untimely demise by the hands of his master’s creation.  
  
Even as he cursed the earth for wanting to trap him, Mairon mourned what once had been his home. He let his fingers graze over dusty walls, half-torn down by the Valar’s onslaught and he could still draw their thoughts from the mortar. Traitor, their hearts had raged, vial spirit, defiling and breaking what is sacred and now it is his turn. Get him and lock him up for good. And so, they had. Foolish, that even in their deepest fury, imprisonment was the worst punishment they could devise.  
  
So, as Utumno had fallen, dust and fire swirling in high cyclones, screams of terror and triumph threatening to burst the bubble that was Arda, lightning like falling stars tearing at the high peaks of the surrounding mountainside, Mairon had fled. He hadn’t stayed to watch Melkor being captured and he hadn’t tried to prevent it. Mairon for one, knew a lost fight when he saw one. At least this way, someone had remained to keep things in order. And then Melkor had been gone, the whole center of Mairon’s neat and terrible universe ripped away and he had stayed behind to mend the tears, fill up the holes, working tirelessly for close to three thousand years and still, Utumno was a ruin at his feet and there was nothing he could do about it.  
  
Mairon would have rebuilt it. It mattered not that Angband was the root of all his own creations, that Utumno had never felt like a real stronghold. Where Angband was all Mairon’s heart, symmetrical towers rising high, fires burning in every room and whispering from deep crevices, intuitive layout and dungeons carved to minute detail, Utumno had been his Master’s mind formed into a palace. Cutting spires and dark stone, sprouting from the soil at random, curved corridors and walls turning to ice what touched them too long and it had been darkness incarnate and for that Mairon had thought it beautiful. There had been no lights in Utumno except for the cold radiance of Melkor’s feä and Mairon’s own glowing works.  
  
Mairon had offered to rebuild his Master’s great creation, would have done so in long labor and with naught but his own two hands, but he hadn’t dared to touch it in his master’s absence and Melkor had struck him down at the mere suggestion once he’d returned. Even now, staring at the dry earth, the echo of the slap ghosted over Mairon’s cheek, long-taloned gauntlets ripping open his face and a growl of anger filling his mind.  
  
“Utumno has met its end,” Melkor had murmured and stretched out the very same hand that had torn Mairon’s skin mere moments before. Mairon had taken it, steps carefully timed in this long dance. He had taken it and let himself be pulled upward. With a feral despair he had beheld his master’s shimmering eyes, his set mouth and felt a new devastation form in Melkor’s mind, so fierce it spilled over. Crashing waves had torn at Mairon’s mental defenses, wind had howled through his ears and an agonizing burst of pain had split his heart clean in two. That was the first time, Mairon had put his fingers to Melkor’s cheeks, tracing the line of unshed tears down the dry skin and kissed him. It had been a fleeting thing, a fluttery touch of lips that meant only to convey one thing.  
  
_The whole world may meet its end, but we will endure. _  
  
Melkor had sighed. He’d wrapped his arms around Mairon, an embrace so crushing, his carefully constructed bones creaked under the pressure and had buried his face against Mairon’s hair.  
  
“I despise you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Tell me again, Mairon.”  
  
“I am, first, foremost and always, your servant. None other may have me or claim my loyalty.” He’d been glad the corridor was desolated. No ears to hear these unnecessary vows and stupid proclamations.  
  
“And?”  
  
“I devote my life to your vision and my heart to yours.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“If I ever betray these oaths, you may wipe me from existence.”  
  
As such, Mairon had spoken a thousand times. He could recite these words on the rare occasions he passed out into a deep slumber. He’d said them when Melkor had come to him, in the dead of night with only the blasted jewels illuminating Mairon’s rooms. He’d said them before and after every battle they fought. He’d said them while being fucked, slapped, held, kicked, kissed. They were the underlying mantra of his life since Melkor’s exile and with every time they passed his lips, Mairon resented them a little more. As such, he would speak until the day the world ended.  
  
Now, Mairon swept past more broken stone, his cloak swirling up dust, and he drew it tighter about himself. Utumno was vast even in its demise, its barrenness seeped into Mairon’s bones whenever he walked here for too long and Melkor could be anywhere. But as always, like a moth drawn to light, like an orc drawn to fresh meat, like the Firstborn to Valinor, Mairon gravitated towards Melkor. It was inescapable.  
  
He came to part of a wall still standing, dark marble, paper thin in the grey nothingness of the land, behind which the old throne room had been. Mairon stopped to rebraid his hair and straighten his robes, straighten the small golden circlet he wore as a token of his position. His dressings were not fit for a personal chitchat with the king of Arda, they were work clothes, simple dark linens and leathers. Enough for a private word with a forlorn master.  
  
Mairon’s heartrate picked up when he stepped around the broken doorway. One never knew what to expect when it came to Melkor, Eru’s greatest creation and mystery. He was about ready for anything.  
  
His master stood where once his throne had, tall and statuesque with his hands behind his back, a stark contrast against the white cloak he had taken to wearing. Melkor loved to see the grime of his deeds displayed for all the world to see. There were no bloody handprints on this one yet, but that was only a momentary glimpse and one Mairon alone was privy to. Melkor’s hair was a river of liquid charcoal down his backside and almost reached to where his hands rested. He could have been carved out of the very same marble these walls had been, if it weren’t for the slight tremor of the air around him, lines of twitching energy spilling from his form. Mairon didn’t need to see his master’s face to know he was not in a generous mood. Melkor must have sensed him the moment he’d stepped onto the grounds and Mairon made no effort to soften his steps as he entered the scene of Melkor’s capture. The very hall in which Melkor had ruled, had made Mairon his lieutenant and more. The ruins of their glory.  
  
“My king,” he muttered and sunk to one knee before Melkor’s back. “Your presence is required.”  
  
“By whom?”  
  
Mairon bowed his head. Submission was what this one demanded, unconditional and existing only for its own sake. If it would get the job done, Mairon would lick the very dirt Melkor treaded upon, no matter how toxic and foul it might taste.  
  
“Your subjects. A kingdom is naught without a strong leader.”  
  
“You have been their leader for the past ages.” And there they were again, caught in an endless loop.  
  
“Only as a placeholder, mylord. It is not a position I aspire nor one I am fit for. Only you can give them the guidance they need.”  
  
“Have you no grip on my servants then? Can you not tell them whither they may go and what they may do?”  
  
“I can and do, mylord.”  
  
“And have they no respect for you? Do they not carry out your orders as well as if they were mine?”  
  
“They do, mylord.”  
  
“Then pray explain to me again, lieutenant, why my presence is required? If I speak through you that should suffice.”  
  
“Because it is not me they have sworn fealty to. And they would do well to remember it… as would you.”  
  
Mairon kept his gaze fixed on the ground, watched the shadows shift as Melkor turned around.  
  
“Your insolence is getting quite out of hand.”  
  
“I speak only my mind as you would have me do.”  
  
“Tell me again, Mairon.”  
  
Mairon sighed inwardly. This was taking entirely too long and Melkor was entirely absent. Not even a prod at their mental connection could draw forth a reaction from the Vala. Only if he stuck to the script would Melkor unfreeze enough to listen. It was an endless play, born from Melkor’s years in the void, most of which had been spent nurturing what Mairon believed were childish fears and nonsensical doubts. It availed to nothing if Mairon swore that 3000 years were nothing by his reckoning (which was a lie), that he had spent the whole time working towards Melkors vision even as they had been completely cut off from each other (which was the truth, though work had never seemed more pointless than during those years). Melkor had come back and the only thing on his mind had been destruction and Mairon’s imminent betrayal. Mairon spent too much of his time (all wasted, all for nothing) proving that there was only ever one thing he fought for. Melkor still did not believe him.  
  
_Is this necessary _, he thought and puffed out the air between his cheeks. That turned out to be a mistake as Melkor reached for Mairon`s braid and tugged hard so that he was forced to look up, meeting bloodshot eyes. Deep lines were carved into his master’s forehead and Melkor’s skin looked even grayer than usual. For his standards, he was a wreck.  
  
“You ought to veil your thoughts more thoroughly. It is as if you were screaming at me.”  
  
“I apologize. But I have made my loyalties more than clear. With all due respect, mylord, what more have I to do?”  
  
Melkor stayed silent but his grip tightened and Mairon couldn't help the small whimper that escaped him as his scalp strained against the constant pull. His memories kicked in, playing over the hundreds upon hundreds of times Melkor had drawn from him pain as exquisite as this. Utumno was a well-favored place of Melkor’s and Mairon always found him here and always these visits ended with him down in the dirt, used and abused by his master and loving every moment of it. It was the only upside to this whole business that was otherwise woven through with paranoia and arguments and was driving Mairon to the edge of his patience. More than ever, Melkor wanted him, if only to display his dominance. Mairon licked his lips, averting his gaze. It had the desired effect as the air around Melkor trembled and shifted, his master’s desire shivering against Mairon’s cheeks.  
  
“Are you unable to keep your dirty mind in check, lieutenant? It keeps straying these days,” Melkor growled and tugged roughly. Mairon pressed his lips tightly shut, but there was a moan hovering in the back of his throat and while Melkor’s face, glacial in the fading light of day, showed no emotion, a betraying bulge had formed right in front of Mairon’s face. In this one thing they were, both of them, predictable.  
  
“Have I not used you thoroughly enough last time?” Melkor wrapped the long braid of hair around his hand several times, so tightly that Mairon’s head was pulled upwards and with his other hand he undid the lacings of his own pants. “Have I not ruined your body? And still you come crawling back for more. Disgusting.”  
  
“I am not the only one who is insatiable.” A resounding slap filled the space and Mairon’s cheek began to burn. Mairon grinned. He loved pushing Melkor, although it was easy to push too far and he still bore the scars from those encounters in his heart, treasuring them.  
  
“Shut your filthy mouth, Maia.”  
  
Mairon opened his mouth to retort, but Melkor was faster, pushing his cock in all the way to the base and whatever Mairon words had formed warped into a choked gargle. A long-stretched moan as Melkor rolled his hips and when there was no space left in Mairon’s mouth he edged even deeper.  
  
“Mhhm,” Melkor said. “That’s much better. I cannot stand your constant chatter. Always on about work and responsibilities. I will teach you to shut up one of these days.”  
  
_ Yes. Please. _  
  
“Shush.”  
  
Melkor gripped Mairon’s neck, still tugging hard at his hair and used him to ride out his own pleasure, ravaging Mairon’s face and he took it all in, swallowing around his master’s cock, drinking in the pain and the pleasure and thanking their maker that he wasn’t like the Children who would be gagging and crying at the brutality of Melkor’s thrusts. Mairon prided himself in some form of composure, although it was steadily slipping away from him as his throat answered with strangled whines, constricting. How could he keep it together, when, for once, Melkor was letting go, pouring his anger, his suspicion and the million other pent up feelings he harbored into his movements?  
  
_ Master, mylord, please, I- _  
  
Out of nothing, Melkor halted and Mairon whined at the anticlimax, thirsting for his Master's release, saliva dribbling down his chin. Melkor cupped his face, letting go of his hair, cock throbbing against the inside of Mairon's cheeks.  
  
“How far would you go?” Melkor crooned and pushed back a strand of orange hair that had fallen over Mairon’s eyes. As he looked up, Mairon found that Melkor’s eyes had softened to a faint glow. The creases in his face had smoothed out and half a smirk played about his lips. _This is what I can do for you _, Mairon thought, careful to keep it within the places of his mind Melkor couldn’t perpetrate. It was true bliss to see his master relaxed for once, almost content.  
  
Mairon made a questioning noise, failing to form words with such a burden, such a gift in his mouth.  
  
“How far would you go to prove your loyalty to me, Mairon? What would you be ready to do for me?”  
  
_Anything._ Mairon pushed the word at Melkor with as much coherent force as he could muster and underlined his conviction with a thorough slide of his tongue that made Melkor gasp. Mairon smiled. Absolutely anything. His own cock ached painfully, straining against the fabric of his breeches, but that was secondary, and he relished the feeling as much as he yearned for more. _Please._  
  
“Close your eyes,” Melkor said and his hips started again, albeit slow, almost careful. Mairon obliged and splayed his hands over Melkor`s thighs to steady himself. He pushed his power forward through his fingertips, warmth seeping though the fabric of Melkor’s pants and into his skin. Melkor pressed into the touch. Locked together as such, they picked up the pace and it was all Mairon could do not to topple over with the force of Melkor’s thrusts, his cock pushing deep into his throat and this time he did gag as he tried to swallow. When they had established a punishing rhythm once more, Mairon could feel a light pressure as Melkor placed his thumbs over his eyes and pushed.  
  
“Trust me,” Melkor said and Mairon did. He did not question Melkor’s intentions nor did he have reason to. This was a chance to prove himself, maybe once and for all and he met this intrusion like he met all his master’s touches, be they harsh or gentle. With reverence and pride that he should receive such attention. His mortal heart swelled inside his chest and his arousal threatened to spill over. Melkor raised the pace, going faster and faster and with this, the pressure on Mairon’s eyes increased from light to uncomfortable, to painful and still, he begged.  
  
_ Please, mylord. More. _  
  
Melkor shuddered against Mairon, low groans like drums spilling from his lips and filling the landscape around them. The soil under Mairon’s knees creaked and shuddered and the air whipped around them in biting circles.  
  
Mairon knew Melkor was smiling without having to look at him. He could feel it in the shift of his hips, the soft grind of calloused palms against his cheeks, the energy that flowed from the thumbs in his own eye sockets and set his whole skull vibrating. And as Mairon’s eyes finally gave in with a soft squelch, Melkor spilled hot down his throat, hips jerking uncontrollably. Mairon himself followed suit, gasping through pleasure and pain. As his body convulsed, his hands finally slipped and Melkor’s palms and thumbs like hooks were the only thing holding him upright.  
  
Mairon swallowed and exhaled slowly. His face felt fiery and blood rose high to his head in thick, deafening pulses. He tried to open his eyes, but the world remained black around him. Instinctively, his body, well-trained to such occasions, began to reknit itself, a tickling sensation where the healing factors were taking effect, but they were blocked by some force outside of him. This was no feat he had the power to undo. He made a gurgling sound against all intuition, not quite sure what to make of this new display of Melkor’s dominance.  
  
“There now,” Melkor murmured and removed his cock, his thumbs. With a swift motion he pulled Mairon up and into his arms, cradling his head against his chest. “That will do.”  
  
“Thank you, mylord,” Mairon replied, his throat dry, his voice shaking. He felt blood run down his cheeks and clenched his fists. “I am grateful for this chance.”  
  
He could feel the earth, still pulsating beneath his feet, a new and steady rhythm now that its greed for violence and death was sated for the moment, as was its master’s. For the moment, Mairon thought. He hadn’t the energy left to conceal his mind, but Melkor didn’t comment on it, nor on the fact that Mairon was trembling in his arms.  
  
“Come on,” he said instead and placed a soft kiss on Mairon’s forehead in a rare gesture of tenderness. “I’ll take you home.”


End file.
